


Unclean Deeds

by littlehands



Category: Alias
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-23
Updated: 2010-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehands/pseuds/littlehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We both know that we want it / But we both know you left me no choice"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unclean Deeds

  
_"We both know that we want it / But we both know you left me no choice"_  
He watches her as she undresses; one article of clothing at a time, the sound of cloth sliding over skin filling the room. Echoing in the emptiness of the hotel room, full of a pregnant silences. The rustle of a slip on a thigh, lifting as she raises her arms.

He should go to her, go touch her - warm her skin. But he doesn't, but he continues to watch through the doorway, a physical barrier between them. He stands, arms crossed over his bare chest, the suit from that morning resting on the back of the wing chair; gun in his left pocket. With the bit of her face he does see, he can tell that she is lost in the act, the calming motions of dressing done in reverse. She is seemingly unaware of his presence, yet is aware of the nature of his presence.

Her undressing is slow; the dance of Salome. None of it for him - no seduction - this is an offering. She is offering up her body for the cause; women give their bodies, while men give their blood; in the end, both give their lives.

He's always seen her as a temptress; he's seen her this compromised before, but in the room ahead of him he sees a fallen woman. His cold heart almost feels for her; to go from the arms of a good man, whatever that means, to the arms of a comrade, in just a few hours. She knows that he isn't a good man, that he won't be kind, they have never been kind before. She turns to face him, blond hair, pale. Framed in the doorway, cream against cherry wood.

She walks to the bed, brushing past him, eyes flashing in the dim light. He reaches out, taking her shoulder, forcing her to stop. He knows that she'll just go through the motions without really knowing the pleasure, but he wants her to feel this, to feel this moment. He's heard about her for years, the sweet, innocent whore; he's seen her rise to the place that puts her across the room from him.

He knows that it's been hard for her; sex is much more personal then killing. While his hands are dirty, her whole body is; he can just put the gun away, she can't detach herself from the act by one simple action. The thing they share is the darkness in their souls; she can see it in his eyes, the lust. To want her, to want her after all he knows; it may just be a test but he's trying to make it more, raise the stakes. As much as she wants to just close off, he's not going to let her, he isn't the first to make her feel.

He touches her skin, the strap of her slip, her breath stops. With a slow exhale, the strap falls. The top curve of her breast is exposed. His lips connect with her flesh, her lungs fill with flames. The feelings swell, and she lets herself get lost in them.

As the fire burns, lingers on her skin, the other strap falls. Silk pools in waves around her hips. The soft curve of her torso framed by blond waves on top, and peach drapes below. His eyes roam, hands sliding across her flesh, down to the spot that many other hands have lingered before.

Nothing new for her, he guesses; to find herself exposed to a stranger. But he is was no stranger, she knew knows him – or at least his reputation quite well. She just hadn't met him before all the trouble started with that woman, and he became a major part of the plan.

The plan, such a generic term for such a complex maneuvering. She was just a pawn in the game that had started, had been predicted years before she was even born. In the end, she reminds herself from time to time, it's the pawn that can bring about the endgame.

She knows that tonight is a test, that if she passes she'll be allowed to re-enter the circle. They shake their collective heads and say that she was too involved with him. Now she must prove that she can let him go, and the hands upon her start to make her feel.

To feel. He's spent his life trying to feel. He only feels for a brief moment, and so he is always searching for that next hit, an addict for a moment of open truth. He's found it in many places; dusty pages of a book, the whisper of a cello, the moist softness of a woman. That is the ultimate moment, to be so exposed in body and soul. It's not every time, just those rare few that are so steeped in bliss that your souls become entwined.

He wants to find this moment with her, but she has to feel it too, know the moment with him. And he'll make sure, she'll not soon forget tonight. He assures himself that she'll forget the man that's so clearly on her mind once she tastes, and feels him. His hands hold her still in the doorway, lips on her neck. Sliding his open mouth down to her shoulder, planting small wet kisses in his wake.

She tilts her head, hand creeping up his arm. Long fingers dancing a slow path up his body. He shivers; she smiles. He feels her start to loosen, unwind; her hand pulls his body to hers. Bodies moving into alignment his hip against hers. He moves his body, pushing towards the bed. As she walks, the slip starts to slide down her body, losing its grasp.

It falls down and her body is exposed, his hands take advantage of this, touching her warmth.

Her skin is hot, burning his fingers; he takes the pain, his body fueling the fire. She reaches back, arms flung behind her head, gripping him close as his lips attack her neck. She welcomes the force of his kisses, she's tired of soft caresses; she's always liked it harder. Or maybe it's just that she's taught herself to find a bit of pleasure in her duties. She's been used so much, her body truly isn't hers anymore.

But he made her feel, the life that once it started to flow from him, suffocated her. He made her feel something for him; she failed. She failed in her job, because she lost the detachment.

Standing nude now before him, the light it dim, but his skin shimmers, boxers straining. She moves to the bed, morning the loss of his touch. She slides on to the cool sheets, legs falling open instinctually. He stands, tall like a statue at the foot of the bed, pulling off the last physical barrier between them. She props her head up to look at him, not breaking the locked gaze.

As he moves on to the bed, crawling to her; his body is firm and lean. Pale skin, lean muscles from his time in solitary. He is beside her, lets his fingers walk up her body. He can feel her tense and then relax in his wake.

He kisses her for the first time, parting her lips, thrusting his tongue in. She fights for control, sucking on his lip, running her tongue over the crooked line. He moves closer, sliding his leg between hers with a practiced grace. She presses her hips against his thigh, he's hard against her hip.

As his mouth battles with hers, his hands cup her breasts, running his thumb over and over the hardened nipple. She moans, he grins like a cat. Moving his mouth down, attacking her breast, knowing just how she likes it, her low noises encourage him.

She's torn. Amazed by his touch, that he seems to know her body so well. But part of her, the rational side hidden deep inside; knows that he's just a test. A test that could be a pleasure, if she pushes the condemning thoughts behind her. She wills herself to think of him, knowing that he's done this so many times, so many times in his mind, picturing brown hair as he fucked her. He could have already betrayed her, she didn't know.

All these thoughts are pushed aside as he spread her legs open, lowers his lips to her hot sex. Senses are trained on his touch, he seems to be touching her, the woman inside. His thumb parts her swollen lips, rubbing the pleasure point. Her voice betrays her, echoing in the room.

Her noise seems to trigger him, spurring him on. Shutting his eyes, sliding a finger in to the moist gap. The tightness surprises him, her walls grip; didn't know what to expect, knowing how many times she's found herself on her back. He's happy with her reaction, brings him pleasure to see her enjoying this planned fuck. Flicking his tongue over her clit, alternating long low ones with shorter harder ones. She pushes him, hands in his hair, still shorn short; legs holding him close. She's on the edge, but she's holding herself back.

He opens his eyes, catches her in his gaze. She's waiting for him, the consummate whore, knowing that it all revolves around his ultimate pleasure. He won't let that happen, his very touch insists her explosion of senses. It's a fight, both wanting the upper hand. When you're use to always being in control of the plan, to be the submissive one is too loose that overriding idea of power.

The question of power has hung over then, since she first walked into the hotel room. She's not going to let him win, but sometime, maybe it was when he added the second finger, she gives into her body. Her world becomes a burst of light, feeling; touch is her spark, trigger.

Her breathing slows, chest rises and falls, he watches her. Pulling his body up, propping himself over her, eyes trapping her in his gaze. Her eyes are wide open, glossy, pupils dilated. Reaching up, running her finger over his cheek, down to his jaw, finally coming to rest on his shoulder. Kissing her slowly, wanting to let her sensations build again, but the feel of her softness against his arousal becomes too much.

The kiss grows, her legs wrap around his lean body. The warmth of her sex slides against him, breath catches in his lungs as she moves into aliment. A sly grin blossoms on her faces as she feels him momentarily break in the illusion of control, but he kisses the grin away not wanting her to have the upper hand. He knows that she's enjoying this, that pleases him; but her cockiness about his pleasure doesn't. He battles with the conflict within him, and he lets his mind win. He's still playing the game, he still wants to top, in more ways then one. Thrusting his hips against her, she reacts, gripping his shoulder tighter.

He moves his hands down, sliding his finger over her skin, sticky with drying sweat. Curling his finger around the backs of her thighs, he spread her legs, lifting them to her chest. Throwing one of her arms behind her head, gripping for purchase on the sheets. The free hand moves down his torso, trailing down, feeling the muscles under his skin, straining. She watches him, pushing her hips wide. Her heart is pounding, body betraying her need, her continuing want.

He moves, letting his swollen head lie against her damp curls. He thrusts gently, seeing how reactive her body is, her hips rock in reply. Poised at her entrance, he pauses for a moment, like a gentleman, before he enters her. Enters her with a wanton lust, betraying his need. She shuts her eyes, it's never felt like this before, never has she felt like all her veins were on fire. Pounding in union, waves on a stony shore. He's lost for a moment, like her, but he recovers, and begins the frantic dance.

A set dance like the minuet; the music, the dresses can change, the basic step is always the same. It's the same, not matter who is beneath him - above her; the opening moves are always breathless. He slides, the only word to describe the sensation, in and then back out again. Slow at first, finding the perfect rhythm that flows from her. Matching him, right on his heals, allowing him so close, touching her depths.

The dance speeds up, rivulets of sweat bathe his back, she's moaning a steady stream. A shift from form to form; each motion a frantic coupling. He's so close, looking down at her face, her head turned to the side, neck tense. She can feel him reach a peak, plateau; it's her signal to let go, for a moment. All of the power struggle fades, and there is a dense fog that enrobes them. Both pairs of eyes are shut; hers are relaxed, his are pinched closed with the almost pain that comes with release.

Release, she thinks as her thoughts return, something in her was uncaged. She's happy in an odd way, in the embrace of a cold man. He's nothing like him. He fits her, fills her body like he never could, no matter what she may have whispered at night. He's breathless, trying not to put all his dead weight on her tiny form, but not really caring. She was better then he thought, both still silent, save for breathing.

He gathers his composer, moving off her into a an upright position. She rolls on to onto her side, reaching for her slip, left on the floor in a soft puddle. He looks back, over his shoulder, watching her get off the bed. Brushing her hair from her face, carefully arranged curls now falling in waves, giving her the air of a younger woman. Naked in the dim light, she seems so clean, he can see what drew him in. She's so angelic on the outside. He; as a younger man, when he was more prone to fits of the heart, would have given much for her.

She dresses in silence, they haven't spoken since they walked in to the cold hotel room. He sits on the bed, back to her, starting out of the window at the foreign city scape. She slides on her shoes, as his mobile rings. He reaches for it, on the glass topped table. She sighs softly, only for her to hear, body starting to feel the exertions of their activities.

He speaks low into his phone, the voice harsh on the other side. He's still aware of her presence, he had to get use to her, but he always hates having have to deal with another. Attachment is a gift, to him; few have gained it, and they were well taken care of, protected.

Ending the call, raising his eyes, she stands before him, one hand on her hip.

"We have a client to meet in the lobby, we're going to be late."

"Now?" Fixing her skirt.

"Yes, he's been waiting." Pulling a shirt on.

"I have to be on a flight to LA tonight, my meeting was only for the afternoon."

"I'll call the airfield, have the jet standing by."

"Thank you."

Closing the door behind him she walks to the elevator, sliding the gold ring back onto her finger, exhaling slowly, and feeling the weight.


End file.
